the last thing from calf-love,
is a good deal less than half-love,
It’s of as dubious savour
as these gentlemens behaviour,
which is stinking enough.
Not the courteous or meek
but he of most scar-swollen cheek
will get to seize her by the scruff
and pin her to the ground
w ith her tail going round and round.
She, for her part, watches them tear
each others heads with an air
of piqued amusement, from a spot
of safety. That gets her hot.
She rolls herself base uppermost
and rubs her neck against the post,
the toast of musk his tail-end raised,
and walks on air like a lady praised.
With gashed, infected brows
the losers slink behind the house
and when they meet, in stiff slow-motion
circle, speaking with deep emotion
of reciprocal hate and converging lust
then give each other another thrust,
glad if they can rip an ear,
glad to hear the song of fear,
fangs sunk in thick necks
with curses that would vex
the Devil himself from sleep.
And when to a nook she must creep,
fat as a furry full moon,
and multiply all too soon,
birthing a further four or five,
and give them suck and help them thrive,
given half a chance the brutes
will kill the kits, their own prick-fruits.
Thank heavens we are not Felidae!
Thank heavens human loves so tidy!